


When You See Him on the Dance Floor

by Violetwylde



Series: Martin RPF [6]
Category: British Actor RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Cunnilingus, F/M, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Vaginal Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-04-06
Packaged: 2019-11-27 12:41:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18194735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violetwylde/pseuds/Violetwylde
Summary: The RPF that started it all! A chance encounter on the dance floor leads to a night of lust and debauchery.





	When You See Him on the Dance Floor

Pulsing lights and thumping music surround you, flow into you. You’ve almost lost yourself to the crowd—to the writhing mass of bodies—when you feel him behind you, hands hot on your hips, moving your body along with his. One hand travels up your side, ghosting over your breast and wrapping around your throat. You lean back into him, feel the ridge of his cock against your ass, pressing between your cheeks, giving you just a hint of what could be. His breath tickles over your ear as he asks if you want to go someplace more quiet. 

Turns out “someplace quiet” is Martin’s private car. It isn’t a limo, he’s not that pretentious, but it’s a sleek black affair with dark windows. His driver is leaning on the hood smoking a cigarette and Martin catches his eye, gives him a nod. The man flicks the butt to the ground and moves to get in. 

Hand on your back, Martin guides you in and follows closely behind. You turn on the cool bench seat and he’s right there, hovering over you. He reaches out, fingers tracing from temple to jaw, they slip into your hair and cup the back of your head. He leans in. He smells like morning mist settled against the trunks of redwoods—cool and ethereal. Untouchable. Primal. 

His nose skims up your neck, his lips trace the shell of your ear. “My driver’s discreet,” he murmurs, “but I can put the separator up if you’d prefer.“ 

Something dark shivers through you, settles between your legs and throbs. You haven’t even kissed yet and you’ve never been this wet. You rake your nails down his back, press him against you. “Leave it down.”

There’s something about a hand slipping up your thigh, under your skirt, and between your legs, that feels so wonderfully dirty. His hand though. _Jesus_. His fingers. They’re fucking filthy, the way they rub you through your panties. The fabric is soaked with your desire.

Your shirt’s rucked up, your bra unhooked—the front clasp turned out to be quiet fortuitous this evening. He drags his mouth greedily over your breast, tongue tracing up to your nipple, flicking over the hard peak. He sucks, scrapes the blade of his teeth over pebbled flesh, makes you arch into his mouth and claw at the soft leather seat.

You wish he’d just rip your panties off already, stop teasing. But he continues to strafe the tips of two fingers against your clit—light but purposeful. He’s very much aware of what he’s doing. He can feel how swollen you are, he must know you’re aching for more.

“Please,” you say, breathless and trembling.

He pulls off your tit with a slurping suck that makes you gasp. “Please what, pet?”

_Oh,_ _Christ_. He sounds so fucking smug. He deserves to. Your mouth says ‘anything’ but your body knows exactly what you want as you grip him by the hair and push his head down. Time to see what that tongue can do.

You’ve never been a banquet before, never been devoured like your cunt was someone’s last meal. There’s nothing tentative about how he pulled your panties down to your ankles, hooked your knees up on his shoulders, and dove in like a man starved. His nose is pressed to your clit, rubbing in tiny movements as his tongue laps deeper. It’s the kind of indulgence you only see in somebody who truly, unequivocally, loves to eat pussy. 

You’ve got your hand on his head, soft silver-blond strands between your fingers. You pull him up by the hair, then push him back down—putting him exactly where you want him. Where you need him. He growls into your muff and starts to circle his tongue. You think you might laugh. You gasp instead. 

His soft lips seal over your hard clit and he starts to suckle. The tip of his tongue flickers against you, sparking pleasure too fleeting to be satisfying. “Harder!” You cry out and frustration drives you to grind up against his face. He doesn’t change the pressure of his mouth, which should be maddening, but then you feel his fingers stroking at your entrance and you sigh. 

_Oh fuck yes._

His fingers sink in. Press. Curl. Withdraw. He finds your spot on his first try and slides the tips of his fingers against it—strokes and pulses. Pleasure isn’t just sparking now, it’s igniting. Flames of ecstasy lick up your spine and you can only writhe under the intensity. 

You moan and arch, seeking escape even as you beg for more. He chases you with his mouth, sucking at your clit while his fingers plunge knuckles deep into you. He’s relentless. 

You can feel the crescendo building and you tremble. You’re going to come. _Jesus,_ you’re going to come. 

It’s only when you hear a muffled, “Yeah. Come on, pet,” that you realize you’ve been saying it out loud. Moaning it, chanting. 

“Oh!” You cry out. You’re at the peak. He’s holding you there with gentle strokes and sweet, sipping sucks. “Oh, fuck. Oh, yes!“ Then his tongue is sweeping over you again and you’re coming, screaming, thighs clenching around his head. 

You’re still pulsing, still whimpering, and when your head lolls to the side you catch the eyes of the driver in the rearview mirror. He winks and starts the engine.

* * *

After he smears wet, open kisses up your stomach, chest, and throat. 

After he says, “you’re delicious,” and thanks you for the privilege of eating your juicy cunt. 

After he licks into your mouth and shares the taste of your come, still lingering on his tongue. 

After he tells you how much he wants you and presses your hand to the bulge of his hard cock. 

After you feel him, thick and hot and straining against his trousers, and curse under your breath because, _fuck_. 

You’re suddenly in his lap. Your skirt is rucked up to your waist, your panties have slipped to the floor of the car. He’s tugging your shirt over your head, but he’s not taking it off. He’s twisting it, binding your arms to your sides. Your bra is dangling open and he noses past the lace to run his lips along the supple curve of your breast, hot breath teasing you to exquisite sensitivity. 

You squirm, try to grind down on the ridge of hardness beneath your bare pussy. He grabs your hips, takes control, pulls you against him as he cants his own hips up. Despite how slick you are—dripping with his saliva and your own sweet wetness—the friction of his trousers is bordering on too much and you wish your hands were free so you could open his fly and mount is fat prick. 

“Wanna fuck you,” you say, a breathy entreaty you hope he won’t be able to refuse. “Please let me fuck you.“ 

He runs his hands through your hair, tugs until your head falls back. He licks your throat and whispers into your skin. "All in good time, pet. All in good time.”

With soft, gliding touches, he slips off your skirt and shirt and bra, leaving them to join your panties on the floor. When you get to the hotel, he drapes his suit jacket over your shoulders. It smells like cool cologne and warm skin—it makes your stomach swoop. 

He helps you out of the car and you hold the jacket close to your body, careful as you move. You catch your reflection in the plate glass door as he pulls it open and it sends a thrill through you—carried on a dual current of excitement and humiliation. Your hair screams _‘well fucked’_ and though the jacket covers you from your shoulders to the tops of your thighs, it only seems to accentuate the fact that you’re naked. 

Inside, the patrons from the bar have spilled into the spacious and intimately lit lobby. They’re mingling and laughing, and when you enter, it feels as if all eyes are on you. 

They aren’t, of course, they’re on him. But as he guides you with a hand at the small of your back, it makes little difference. 

The click of your shoes against the marble floor is loud in your ears, as if a hush has fallen over the lobby. You can see that the glances in your direction are fleeting and the private conversations are carrying on, but when the cool silk lining of his jacket brushes against your bare skin, it feels as if you’re on display. Your cheeks flush and your cunt pulses. You’re dripping down your thighs by the time you’ve made it to the elevator bank. 

He leans forward to press the call button, and as he shifts back he whispers, “You’re wet, aren’t you, pet?" 

You clench your thighs, nod. 

"Thought so,” he says, frustratingly casual. The elevator dings. He ushers you in and selects the penthouse. “Best to get you cleaned up before you make a mess of the floor." 

You don’t have a chance to ask what he means before he’s spinning you around and bending you over. You grab onto the railing, and your breath puffs against the polished brass wall. The golden reflection offers you a perfect view as he drops to his knees and pushes the jacket up. 

Fingers brush up the inside of your knee and you spread your legs wider. His hands slide up your thighs, his palms cup and squeeze the cheeks of your exposed ass. He leans in and gets to work.

You feel the hot slide of his tongue running up your thighs as he licks up to your dripping cunt. He points his tongue, dives deep. Your knees go weak and you gasp—a broken, wanton sound—when you feel his lips press hot and hungry against your pussy. He laps from your clit into your folds, dips into your entrance, and stops with a teasing flick over your asshole. Again and again. Getting you all cleaned up.

“Did I miss anything?” His voice is rough, he’s breathless. His teeth scrape over the swell of your ass. “I wanna be thorough.”

You whimper, whisper—the ghost of your request fogging up your reflection.

“What was that?”

You bite your lip, your cheeks flaring with embarrassment. You manage a shaky, "My ass. Lick my asshole.”

He groans, deep and hedonistic, like he’s been waiting all night for you to say that. “Oh. Yes, pet.”

He laps against your tight asshole—swirling and massaging. Pointing and probing. Fucking you with his tongue. You cry out, push back against his mouth. You can feel him parting you. Penetrating. Slowly licking you open. His hands are squeezing your cheeks, spreading you open wider. His thumbs creep in, tugging at your rim.

You let go of the rail, slip your hand between your legs and rub at your swollen, aching clit. Finger against the hood, circling. Circling. You’re so close. On the verge of coming.

You’re thrusting back, getting your ass speared by his tongue, flirting with your climax.

He closes his mouth over your rim, plunges his tongue deep and sucks. Back arched you cry out, orgasm right there. Right. Fucking. There.

The elevator dings. The door opens. He pulls away, to your gagging protest, and stands. “Let’s take this inside, shall we?”

* * *

You’ve got one leg up over his hip, grinding your wet pussy against his thigh as he fumbles for the door latch. Finally it clicks, gives, and the two of you tumble inside.

He pushes his jacket from your shoulders, presses you against the wall, slides his hands down your body. He pants, breath warm against your cheek; his lips ghost against the corner of your mouth. He pulls back, drags his fingers from your throat to your jaw. His thumb rests proprietorially on your chin while the pads of his first two fingers brush over your bottom lip. You let your mouth fall open, press your tongue against his finger tips. Taste salt.

“Want a drink?” He asks, breathless. His eyes are focused on your mouth, where your tongue flicks against his fingers.

You nod and his fingertips catch and tug at your bottom lip as he drops his hand. You stay where you are, leaning against the cool wall, as he moves to the sitting area—to a small wet bar that glints with an assortment of bottles. He picks out a honey-colored liquor and pours a generous three fingers.

The citrine light of a distant lamp casts a halo around him, makes him look angelic. The heat in his gaze as he saunters back makes him look anything but. A fallen angel, then. That suits you just fine.

He tips the glass against your lips and pours liquid amber into your mouth. You swallow, the taste of earth and smoke burning down your throat and warming your stomach. He takes a step back and his eyes rake over you as he brings the glass to his own mouth and sips.

You can feel his gaze like a caress over your bare skin—brushing down your shoulders and breasts and the dip of your waist, slipping between your legs. His eyes linger there for a long moment before they flick down his own body. His brow lifts as if he’s surprised. “I suppose one of us ought to take my clothes off too.”

It isn’t an order, but you move all the same. You tug his shirt out of his pants, a bit rough, and he smirks. You work his shirt buttons open slowly, despite the siren song of lust demanding that you get him naked, get his cock in you, ride him hard. He takes another sip as you slip the last button free.

You don’t bother taking his shirt off. Instead you trail the backs of your fingers down his stomach, feeling the tickle of hair under his navel that guides you to his belt buckle. The clink of metal and rasp of zipper are obscenely loud as he finishes his drink.

You go down on your knees, taking his trousers with you. Under his shirt tails, his cock strains—thick and heavy—against gray briefs and, Christ, you need it. Need the weight of it on your tongue. You run your palms up his legs, feel tension and restraint, and imagine what it will be like when he unleashes it. When he fucks you. Wrecks you. When you reach his inner thighs you curl your fingers, scratch your nails back down the soft, sensitive skin. He makes a tiny sound—a gasp, a laugh, a bitten off moan—you’re not sure. His cock jerks and a bead of precome darkens the fabric of his underwear. You lick your lips, the desire to taste him burning through you.

“You look hungry, pet,” he says, bringing his hand up to brush back your hair. It’s starts as a gentle touch, but ends with a suggestive tug.

You moan, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip. You are. _So_ hungry.

“What should we do about that?”

His tone says he knows exactly what to do. He knows exactly what you’re aching for. But teasing is a two-way street and you know what he wants too.

You sit back, place your hands on your knees, and look up—wide eyed and submissive. It isn’t a stretch to sound desperate, to sound drunk on lust when you say, “Feed me your cock, daddy.”

His Cheshire smile send a thrill down your spine.

Reaching into his briefs, he scoops out his cock and balls, letting them rest on the taut waistband. He’s so hard—long and thick and flushed a lovely shade of pink—and the very sight makes your mouth water. He wraps his hand around the shaft, obscuring the subtle lattice of veins that snake from root to flaring crown, and gives himself a few gratuitous strokes. You lick your lips again, watching as his foreskin glides back and forth over the shiny head, until he’s leaking.

“Give us your tongue, pet,” he says, squeezing the tip—milking himself, coaxing a fat bead from the slit.

Eagerly, you extend your tongue, taste buds tingling in anticipation. He cants his hips forward, working the circle of his forefinger and thumb over the crest in short, fast jerks. You both stare, rapt, as the clear pearl slides from his slit, off the tip, and drizzles like honey onto your waiting tongue. Flavor bursts across your palate—briny and a bittersweet—and you close your eyes to better savor it.

“D’you want s’more?” His voice is rough, but confident. He already knows the answer.

You nod, bat your eyes slow and coy. “Yes, daddy.”

“Christ, that’s brilliant,” he says as he takes his cock in hand and glosses your open mouth with his precome.

He feeds you. Inch by fat, throbbing inch. His dick slides between your lips—hot velvet over steel—and you circle your tongue ‘round and 'round until he’s nudging against the back if your throat. You press your nose into his surprisingly auburn thatch of pubic hair and breathe deep, the warm scent of musk making you hazy with lust. His hand rests on your head, fingers tightening in your hair just enough to guide you into a slow, deep bob. You hollow your cheeks, pull back, swirl with your tongue, and slide down again. Over and over until he’s pumping his hips in unison—on the verge of fully fucking your face—and spit has started to dribble down your chin.

But you don’t want it to end like this. It can’t end like this.

You put your hands on his hips and pull off with a slurp. “Oh fuck,” he groans and his cock flexes like it’s seeking out your mouth.

He’s panting, face flush and eyes dark—a bit wild and utterly irresistible. You pump him lightly, dip your head back down, and offer the head of his cock sweet kitten licks. You suckle at his slit, humming at the slick ambrosia of his precome. Carefully, you pull his foreskin up and slip your tongue underneath the sheath. Nestled in this snug space, you run the tip of your tongue around his satin smooth cock head.

His breathing is shattered, his body trembling under your hands. When you look up at him again, he’s slack-jawed and absolutely devastated. 

He moans. It may have been an attempt at a word, but it comes out garbled and weak. You’ve never felt so powerful. 

You pull off after a few more leisurely laps and can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips when he whimpers. Your voice is a bit hoarse—your throat well used—as you ask, "Are you gonna fuck me now?”

He pulls you up to your feet, wraps one hand around your waist and cups your jaw with the other. His lips crash against yours—a scorching brand. He presses against you, guides you backward as his hands slip from your body to fumble at his clothes.

The backs of your knees hit the bed and you fall back, sprawling across the soft, downy duvet. You prop yourself up on your elbows just as he steps out of his briefs and kneels on the edge of the mattress. Your gaze drops from his hungry eyes, down the hard plane of his chest, and settles on his blushing cock. It sways, points at you lewdly, like a dowsing rod seeking out your wetness. His fingers circle your ankles and smooth up your legs until he reaches the crooks of your knees.

“C'mere,” he says, both playful and salacious, and yanks you forward.

An exorbitant thread count—cool and slick as satin—slips under your skin as you slide toward him. You let your legs fall open in brazen invitation and trace the tips of your fingers in lazy patterns against your inner thighs. Your cunt pulses with desire and you groan, “Ohhh… fuck me, daddy.” The desperation in your voice isn’t play-acting.

He lowers himself between your legs and you feel the rasp of his stubble against your knee, moving higher and higher as his lips trail up. His mouth against your wet pussy is starting to become familiar—the way he leads with his tongue and follows with his lips, like he’s enjoying a juicy, ripe peach—and you waste no time sinking your fingers into is silver-flecked hair, guiding him to your clit with a firm tug. His hands curl under your hips as you buck up and he rides your cunt like a fucking rodeo star.

Pleasure builds (his tongue circling around your clit, teasing), spikes (his lips sealing over, suckling), and washes over you like a purifying fire (the undulating flat of his tongue, massaging). You arch off the bed as you come, shouting his name to the ceiling in exaltation. When he finally pulls back his face is drenched from cheeks to chin and a lewd grin stretches his lips.

He dives for you, kisses your mouth, your neck, down to your breasts. He smears your skin with your own juices. You can taste yourself, smell yourself. It’s heady in a way you’ve never experienced before.

Sitting back on his heels, his eyes rake over you with clear intention. It makes you squirm. You’ve never seen someone say _‘I’m gonna wreck you’_ quiet so loudly without ever speaking a word.

He scoots closer, attention now focused squarely between your legs. With his bottom lip caught between his teeth, he takes his cock in hand and gives himself one firm stroke from root to tip and back. He holds the base if his cock and slides the fat head between your folds, up to your clit, and back down. Again and again, each time dipping closer to where you need him most—where you’re waiting to be filled.

“Gonna fuck you, pet,” he says, teasing at your entrance. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. You cant your hips and the tip nudges deeper by mere fractions of an inch, but _Christ_ does it feel exquisite. “Oh. _God, yes_.”

“Yeah,” he repeats, a husky murmur. His eyes are trained on the point where your bodies meet.

Slowly, he pushes in.

“Ah,” you moan, high and short—surprise and relief in one breath—as he slides into you.

“Oh, yes,” he groans in response. “Been wanting to do that all night long.”

He pushes his hot, thick cock in halfway, pulls back, and pushes in again. Slow and steady, inch by maddening inch. His eyes flutter closed, like he’s savoring the excruciating pace.

God, it’s amazing. The fat head of his dick presses against you just right, makes you gasp and roll your hips in time. Perfect.

He thrusts deeper, faster, and you both sigh as he bottoms out, grinds his pelvis, and stirs his cock inside you.

“You like that?” He asks, sliding the entire length of his cock out of you at a glacial pace. “You like my prick in you?”

He slams back in, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth movement that pushes you up the mattress. You reach back and brace yourself against the pillowed headboard.

“Yeah,” you whimper.

He pulls back, so slow you swear to Christ you can feel each rolling vein along his shaft. He fucks into you again, filling you, filling the ache of need deep inside.

“Tell me.” He growls, withdrawing again. His cock head glancing past your g-spot, making your breath catch.

Concentration is suddenly a rare commodity. “What?”

“Tell me what you like about my cock. How much you like to be fucked by it.”

“Oh.” _Jesus_. “I… I love how big it is.” It’s difficult to explain how fundamental of a truth this is—every last molecule in your body is singing praises to his fat, throbbing dick.

“Yeah?” He says with a rakish smile. “What else?”

He grabs your hips and tilts you up, shifting the angle of penetration. You throw your head back, pleasure thrumming through you as he pistons in and out.

“So… So t-thick. Feels so good. Perfect. Jesus, your cock is perfect… Hah!” If he keeps this up, you won’t be able to form a coherent thought, let alone coordinate your mouth enough to speak it.

“Is that the spot, pet?” He asks as he changes the rhythm, his thrusts becoming shallow and precise.

“Yes!” You claw at the sheets, back bowed and tension running through you as pleasure flares deep in your core. It sizzles through you, igniting all your nerve endings like wildfire, until it consumes you. “Christ, yes. Right there! Right. There. Don’t stop! Fuck, don’t stop!”

“That’s it,” he pants. “Come for daddy.”

You hover on the throbbing precipice—the event horizon of orgasm—for two, three, four more thrusts. Then.

_Oh my God…_

Then.

_Oh fuck yes. Yes! Yes!_

You don’t just climax. You reach fucking nirvana. Pulses of ecstasy wipe away all concepts of space and time and you have to cling to the sheets to keep from transcending. He’s still moving, pushing into you with breathy grunts—wringing out strangled cries of bliss.

After an eternity, you come back down—back into your body. Your skin tingles and your limbs feel like jelly. You can still feel weak throbs, little aftershocks of pleasure.

Blearily, you blink up at him and realize at some point during your apparent astral fucking projection, he’d pulled out completely. He’s squeezing his furiously red prick with one hand and tugging at his balls with the other.

Still to fucked out to form words, you cock your head in curiosity. He answers your unspoken question with a rueful smile. “Oh, I’m not done with you yet. Roll over, pet.”

You twist, sated and indolent. His warm palms smooth down your back and cup your ass cheeks. He presses them up, spreads them, squeezes them, then brings them together again. He hums and you can’t tell if it’s in appreciation or consideration. Doesn’t really matter. You tilt your hips, inviting a deeper exploration.

“Up on your knees,” he orders, hands curling around your hips, fingers sliding into the space where groin meets thigh.

You stretch out, nuzzling into the smooth duvet and reaching for the edge of the mattress as you lift your hips. His hands slide down the slope of your spine and blunt nails rake back up. You shiver and steepen the arch, truly presenting yourself.

“There ya go,” he rumbles. His thumbs slip between your cheeks, pulling them apart and stretching your rim. The dry pads tease over your hole, making you clench and release reflexively.

His breath caresses your sensitive skin, his soft lips ghost over the plump, supple curves of your ass. Then his tongue uncurls to swipe against your anus.

It’s sloppy, wet work—clearly meant to slick you up. You feel his warmth pull away, then the hot spatter of spit. He returns, tongue pointed and driving into your center with purpose. You shudder out a breath and bear down, letting the heat and girth slip deeper. He makes a guttural, hedonistic sound that vibrates straight through you, and starts to eat your ass with fervor. Lips and tongue and, yes, even the barest hint of teeth, play at the furled ring—kissing and lapping, nibbling and suckling.

You’re panting into the sheets, rocking your hips and pushing back—trying to get more of his wicked mouth—when you feel two fingers slip into your dripping cunt. He slides them deep, twists, and withdraws. Again and again. There’s a cool shock of air against your asshole as he pulls back, then the warmth of his fingers slicking you up with your own juices. They press against your loosened hole, sinking to the first knuckle. Second knuckle. He pulls back until the just the tips are piercing you, then plunges in—drilling as deep as possible. You gasp at the sudden stretch, that unique sensation of fullness. He thrusts in and out, sending waves of pleasure coursing through you.  

He pulls out, his touch lingering—his fingertips tugging lightly at the ring of muscle. He moans, soft and breathless. “Oh, that’s lovely.”

You feel the mattress shift, his legs brushing against yours, one hand on your hip. Then—you bite your lip in giddy anticipation—then, the hot blundering of his leaking cock head between your cheeks. He rubs himself from taint to tailbone, fat tip catching on your rim with every stroke. Each teasing nudge has you biting back a groan, has you on the verge of begging for him to just. Just—

“C’mon. Stuff me. God. Do it. _Fucking do it._ ”

He laughs, dark and delighted. “Look at you. So impatient.” He slows down, dragging his cock down and tapping it against your fluttering hole. “Just gagging for it.”

You push back, feel the tiniest breach of your entrance, and keen high in your throat. “Please, daddy.”

He rubs the head ‘round again, smearing precome and pressing just enough to hint at penetration. “All right, pet,” he soothes. “Let’s fill you up.”

He presses in and your eyes flutter closed at the delicious, hot stretch. He sinks in so slowly you can actually feel the moment the flare of his cockhead slips passed your rim—the way it pops through the ring of muscle.

“Oh, shit,” you groan into the sheets.

He pauses, runs his hand over your waist. “Good?”

“Jesus.” You want to laugh, because you’ve never been more good in your life. Instead you growl. “Yes.”

“Good.”

He pushes forward, sliding in another inch, then pulls back. In again. Out again. Measured movements, calculated to stimulate the most sensitive part of you. The feel of him—the sweet friction of those shallow thrusts—is exquisite. Your mouth falls open and high, breathless moans pour out.

Pleasure tingles through you—slipping up your spine, and through your belly. Your limbs feel simultaneously heavy and weightless. All you can think about is the slide of his thick cock in and out of your body. You’re lost to the sensation, babbling into the sheets, a breathy, “Fuck yes. Fuck yes. Fuck yes.”

You start to rock your hips in time, lengthening his strokes until every hard inch in driving into you. He pushes deeper, harder—pulls you back to meet him—until his hips are slamming into your ass, his balls slapping against your cunt.

He’s got one hand on your hip, a vice-like grip to keep you in place as he pounds away. The other hand skates up your back and wraps around your shoulder, pinning you down. He’s grunting, rutting. Merciless. It may have been too rough if it weren’t for the glorious stretch of his prick making you shiver and moan.

“You like that, pet?” He asks, the question punctuated by the relentless snap of his hips. “You like being fucked open, hard and fast?”

“Yeah,” you answer, tilting your ass higher and deepening the angle. “Fuck me harder, daddy.”

“Oh, you are a proper slut,” he growls and it startles you just a little—just how wet those words make you.

He doubles his efforts, shifting his weight so he’s leaning over you and putting his full power into fucking you senseless. The exaggerated slope of your spine means he’s bottoming out on every. Single. Thrust. It’s all you can do to just scream into the mattress.

This is beyond the climb and peak of orgasm. This is a constant expansion of pleasure, pulsing and spreading and reaching into parts of you that haven’t ever been touched. Your eyes are wet, brimming with tears of ecstasy.

His thrusts are becoming short again, quick and erratic. His breath is winding higher. “Fuck.” He grits out. “Gonna come. You want me to come in your ass?”

“Please,” you moan, half because you would love nothing else to be filled with his spunk, but also because you don’t think the human body was made to withstand this kind of extended bliss.

Cool air kisses your back as he pulls away, grabs your hips and pistons in and out at a blistering pace. “Oh, God,” he groans. “Oh, Christ. I’m coming. Fuck. Fuck, I’m coming.”

He pushes in, grinds against your ass, and you can feel him thicken—feel his cock jerk over and over. You clench your hole, milking him for every last drop, and he shudders out a weak moan. When he finally pulls out, you both sigh.

His hands are on you again, pulling your cheeks apart, displaying your gaping hole. He traces one fingertip around you sensitive rim and whistles. “That is fucking gorgeous.”

You can feel the warm trickle of his come slipping out, running down your taint, and he swipes it up. You hear the lewd sound of him sucking on his finger. “Delicious,” he says, his fingers teasing at your hole again. “Your ass is a fucking banquet.”

It’s the last thing he says before he’s lapping at your hole, eating his come out of your leaking ass. There’s no finesse left to his technique, this is pure gluttony. He’s slurping and humming and you’d be mortified if it wasn’t the most hedonistic experience you’ve ever had.

When he’s finally satisfied, he moves up your body, smearing kisses across your skin along the way. He nuzzles between your shoulder blades, then falls away. You follow him, tucking yourself into the cradle of his body, wrapped in his arms. It’s a well earned lassitude.

His lips ghost along the crest of your shoulder, his fingers drag up your throat. He applies the slightest pressure, hinting at something more dangerous. “How do you feel about choking, pet?”

Your heart pounds in your chest, so thunderous you know he must be able to feel your fluttering pulse under his fingertips. You tilt your head back, stretch your neck, and bare your throat.

“Brilliant,” he murmurs. “We have something to look forward to in the morning.”


End file.
